Carlisle's Spy
by namelesspanda
Summary: Sherlock and John arrive at Downton on the day of a certain wedding in 1920. They meet Violet Crawley, a somewhat mysterious woman who is a former countess and understood immediately by Sherlock to be some sort of spy. The Dowager is hell-bent on stopping a disgruntled newspaperman and his anonymous assistant from ruining the event, but will she succeed? Also, a bit of M/M wedding.


**A/N: Sherlock Holmes arrives at a wedding in 1920. The Dowager Countess has just learned that Richard Carlisle has placed a spy within the ranks and is planning some form of sabotage, and is determined to see him fail. But naturally, once Sherlock hears of it, he immediately attempts to solve the case. Suspects include Thomas and Daisy…or is it Sherlock himself? **

**A sort-of sequel to my story for Downton Abbey, The Black Widower, in which Violet is a spy, but you don't need to read that to understand this. And a little bit of fluff-ish rambling at the end for the shippers.**

* * *

On May 20, 1920, Violet Crawley woke to the gentle shrill of her clock and promptly sank a small blade into its center. Why must they tick in such an irritating manner? Modern inventions were becoming more and more ridiculous. With an exaggerated sigh, she rang for her ladies' maid—and instead got her butler/covert assistant, Hamilton (well, Hamilton IV, it was much too confusing to remember all of their names).

"What is it?" she demanded, pulling her covers tighter around her. Really, there was no need for the poor man to see her in such a state and she'd _specifically_ instructed him not to barge into her bedroom except in extreme cases of emergency.

"We have a problem, milady." Hamilton announced, and then paused theatrically.

The Dowager scowled at him, and he cleared his throat.

"According to rumours, Sir Richard Carlisle has placed a spy within the ranks of Downton…with the intent of infiltrating the wedding and…" Hamilton swallowed nervously. "…killing."

* * *

When Sherlock woke up on the morning of July 20, 2012, he shot his alarm clock out of pure irritation. Damned thing. It was destroyed, that was to be expected. What was _not_ to be expected was that in a thoroughly painful process lasting two and one-half minutes precisely, he and John Watson were forced into the distant past and landed clumsily in the village square of Downton, Yorkshire.

"Well, that was interesting," Sherlock remarked dryly, observing the small crowd between coughs. The world seemed to be spinning.

"What d'you think it is?" asked John, squinting.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock was still slightly out of breath, so his voice was a bit raspy. "It's a wedding."

"But—I'm wearing my nightclothes. And so are you. And how—"

"The happy couple aren't here yet, but the building's easy enough since the architecture's quite distinctive." Sherlock pointed to the small grey structure on the other side of the dirt road. "A bit old, though, and needs repair. There's a crack near the base of the foundation, several actually, probably caused by age. Oh, and the water running down the hill over there is probably causing damage—nothing to be done about it in this era, but you'd think they'd at least patch it up a bit. It's a church, after all."

"Sorry—what era are we in?" John said, his brow furrowed.

"May twentieth, nineteen-twenty, didn't you notice that man's newspaper? It must be _so _hard to be ordinary, I can't imagine—now, there's also an organ inside, and someone's playing chord progressions."

He paused for the briefest instant, and John strained to hear the faint music from the very back of the church. "Based on the speed and the notes, I'd say the organist is warming up to play a wedding march. And there've been whispers—the wedding is here, ten o'clock, between a certain Mary and Matthew Crawley, daughter and heir to the Earl of Grantham," he finished triumphantly.

"Bloody brilliant," John muttered.

An elderly woman hobbled down the path with her cane, shouting to a frail-looking man who trailed in her wake. "For heaven's sake, Hamilton, I thought you were following Barrow!"

"I was, I—"

"How hard can it be, really?" the woman demanded, and the man hurried off. Sherlock's gaze zoomed in on a small brooch that she had pinned to the lapel of her dress.

"She must be someone important," Sherlock said in a low tone. "Her clothes are all expensive, there's a crest on that pin—I can't tell what it says from here, but I'm guessing it's the Grantham crest. She's a widow, she has a ghastly ring around her finger but no husband in sight. Oh, yes, she certainly had one at one point."

"That's—that wasn't her husband?" John asked.

"Of course not. He works for her," Sherlock replied, already starting to walk in the direction of the woman.

"_Works_ for her?"

"I don't know what he does for her," Sherlock answered scornfully as they approached the old lady. "Yet."

"What do you want?" the Dowager said sharply, lifting her cane just the slightest bit off the ground. "_What _is that you're wearing? You look like monsters from the Dark Ages."

John glanced at his striped pajamas self-consciously, but Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You raised your cane—a sign of aggression. Very good."

"Have you seen Thomas Barrow?" said Violet, her eyes darting everywhere in search of him and barely heeding the two men. "The valet?"

"What's he done?" Sherlock said immediately. Finally, the woman turned to look him square in the eye.

"Sir Richard Carlisle has bribed someone here," she said, her eyes more irritated than a provoked tiger's. "It's quite certainly Thomas, he's had financial problems recently."

"Sir Richard Carlisle," Sherlock mused. "I…no, wait, newspaper magnate. But what does he have to do with this?"

Violet shook her head. This man was very ignorant, too ignorant. "You're clearly not very bright," she said with disdain.

"Aha!" Sherlock exclaimed suddenly, pointing a finger at Violet. He clapped his hands together and burst out, "This relates to the wedding, or else you wouldn't be _here._ So Sir Richard, you say, has bribed a servant—a valet, you said, someone close to the top, but still low enough to be involved in the wedding. Why would Sir Richard do that? He doesn't want the wedding to go according to plan, which means—" He stopped suddenly and scrunched his eyes shut.

"What connection does Sir Richard have to the family?" John asked quietly.

Violet started to speak, but was immediately cut off by Sherlock. "He's jealous. There we have it, now _why?_ Why would he be jealous? Only if—" His eyes gleamed. "A love triangle! Very good, can't get much more interesting than that. Venomous lovers scorned—oh, I'm certainly not bored anymore. Sir Richard has bribed—Thomas, you say. To do what? What sort of fellow is he?"

The Dowager sniffed. "You really must learn your place, boy. It's terribly middle-class to be poking around in this." And with that, she turned to walk away, leaning heavily on her stick. "Ah, there's Thomas. I think I'll have a _word_ with him," she murmured dangerously.

Both men turned to look at the valet as Violet trudged menacingly across the square. Thomas was wearing a nasty expression, barely visible from under the heaps of pale flowers that he was carrying.

Sherlock shook his head dismissively. "Not him," he said, striding away from the furious former countess and the bitter valet. "Someone—yes, but not him. Sir Richard wouldn't bribe someone so obvious."

He looked quickly around. There was the sour-faced woman suited in dull black, her brown curls pulled into a severe up-do. But—no, not her. She was looking at the ground absentmindedly, not paying attention. Perhaps she was a ladies' maid, she fit the description—and her wrists were slightly swollen, she probably spent much of her time mending clothes or twisting up hair. To her right was a petite blonde girl. No—too mild-mannered. And on _her_ right, a stern-faced older man with bushy eyebrows. Well, _definitely_ not him. And the woman with the bony face—could be, but probably not, she was too committed to her job based upon the circles under her eyes and the miniscule stain on the hem of her dress. Then there was the frail-looking girl next to her—aha.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. The girl—young, chapped hands, a splatter-shaped burn on her arm…a kitchen maid?—was nervously twisting the hat on her head. An easy target for a newspaperman such as Carlisle. But _she _couldn't be the one, she was just _standing_ there.

And then his gaze fell upon the man with a resentful face who was standing awkwardly at the very edge of the crowd. Sherlock watched as the man cast repeated glances at the woman a short ways down the road (simple dress, slightly protruding stomach, five or six months pregnant, clearly born into the aristocracy—she had familiar-looking features…blue eyes and dark hair…he brushed it off quickly) who was saying something to another lady (more elaborately dressed, frowning a little, much plainer, resembling the first ever so slightly—sisters?—but stiff shoulders, arched eyebrows, wide eyes, awkwardly pointed toes, so there _must_ have been a fall-out of some sort).

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock said rather loudly, indicating Branson. "Him—faded discolorations on his hands, so probably worked with motors, fresher ink stains would indicate he currently works in journalism or is a novelist of some sort—I'd guess newspapers. And he's pining after _her._" He pointed down the lane to Sybil. "Very well-off, probably related to the Earl of Grantham in some way, she wouldn't make the journey otherwise. And—" He suddenly ground to a halt, almost startled. "Oh!" he breathed out. "Matching gold wedding bands on their fingers. And there's no one here who could be her husband, no one else _looking_ at her except her sister—and she isn't in mourning, so it's _him!_"

"Him what?" said John, giving him a befuddled look.

"_He's_ the father!" Sherlock announced triumphantly.

John stared. "But they aren't even _standing _together!"

Sherlock huffed impatiently. "Obviously. They've had a row. Now the question is—about what?"

"Sherlock—"

"Oh, too easy, it's about the aristocratic tendencies of her family. See how he's giving her sister a nasty glare? And his hands are making fists; which indicates aggression. Do keep up, John."

"But what's that got to do with the newspaper magnate and the wedding?"

There was a sudden cheer from the villagers as a horse-drawn carriage pulled down the road. Violet was waving Thomas away with a frustrated sigh, moving to the side as the crowd parted to let the carriage through.

Sherlock reached up to where his collar ought to have been, but found only his long-sleeved grey shirt. The carriage rolled past; in the back sat a woman clothed in white, her frosty veil obscuring her face. From the way she grasped the spray of pale flowers, Sherlock could tell that she was nervous. But her back was rigidly straight, her expression calm—a good actress, but not quite good enough.

Across the road, the Dowager fixed her stern gaze on the strange man in even more queer clothing. "Less than five minutes," Violet murmured to Hamilton. "Take him _down._"

The man nodded. "My pleasure, Your Ladyship." And he edged across the road, hand reaching into his coat pocket.

"Hmph!" the Dowager Countess said as Hamilton's hand closed around the gun.

Sherlock tore his gaze from the carriage as he felt something hard press into his back. From the pattern—it was an old-fashioned revolver. Without turning his head, he said, "You do realize this could completely ruin the wedding."

"Just following orders," Hamilton growled.

"Who—?" Sherlock immediately glanced over at the Dowager, who was wearing a formidable expression of triumph. "Oh." He laughed. "You won't pull the trigger. She wouldn't want a dead body. Not here."

"Are you willing to take that risk?" said Hamilton, pushing the gun harder into Sherlock's back.

"_I'm_ not," John replied loudly, coming from behind and knocking the revolver from Hamilton's hand—at the same time sending him crashing to the ground.

There was an almost collective gasp from the crowd, and even Mary turned to look as she stepped from the carriage. But Sherlock's keen gaze swept the crowd, and found nothing suspicious. The servants were all casting him nasty looks, the two sisters were whispering behind their gloved hands—

"I—can't—bloody hell, Sherlock," John managed to say as he wrestled with Hamilton, who seemed intent on wrenching off his arm. "Ha—take that, you aristocratic animal—"

"Oh, I don't think so—" Hamilton retorted, slamming his elbow into John's stomach.

"That's it!" cried Sherlock suddenly, clapping his hands together as he turned his back on the scuffling men. "John—brilliant, thank you." He pulled his gun from his jacket pocket and clicked off the safety. "You!" he shouted, pointing a finger at Branson, who froze for a fraction of a second and glared back, before ducking past an elderly lady and disappearing into the crowd. Sherlock followed, pushing the same woman out of his path and running almost blindly through. No chauffeur. He glanced around quickly, just in time to see a blur dart behind the church.

The expression on his face was almost amused as he drew out the gun and cleared the first corner of the building with practiced ease, the sounds of the small battle between Hamilton and John still audible. "Come on out now," he said calmly, pausing before the second corner.

There was a click behind him as Violet took aim. "Stop right there," she commanded. "Unless you want your cheekbones blown to bits," she added, cocking her head (which bore a large and intricate hat).

"This is just rude, you know," he replied, but did not lower his gun, still trying to hold the chauffeur where he was hidden.

"It is," another voice agreed. Violet whipped around, hoisting her cane in the air to wave threateningly in Sherlock's face and turning her pistol on Sir Richard—who was brandishing a revolver. "We meet again, Lady Grantham."

"Sir Richard," she said, with contempt. "I've just met your _associate_ here_._ Very good, you know—played the fool, pretended not to know your name—and was very well about to ruin today until…well…I caught him._" _

"Oh?" Carlisle answered menacingly, amused.

"I _don't_ know him," Sherlock insisted, trying to ignore the fact that the tip of the cane was dangerously close to his nose.

"If you aren't his associate, then who is?" Violet demanded, not lowering her weapons.

"I can tell you who he is, he's just behind there."

"_Who?_"

"May I?" Sherlock jerked his head towards the back wall of the church.

She prodded him in the chest with her stick. "Just don't do anything foolish."

"Come on out, now!" he repeated, carefully straightening his gun before clearing the corner. "It makes sense—you don't like the aristocracy, and you want a chance—a fighting chance—as a journalist, which Carlisle could give you. The question is…" He looked over the man curiously. "Just how far are you willing to go?"

* * *

Branson stood up slowly, glaring at Sherlock. "I wasn't," he said, and Sherlock noted the Irish accent.

"A double-cross," Sherlock said, his voice soft as he narrowed his eyes. "_Genius_, you people are. So there's no associate—you were just taking what money you could and running for it."

"The only real _villain_ is Carlisle himself," Branson explained. His normally roguish eyes exuded earnestness. "Look, I'd never do anything that could hurt Sybil, or the baby. I couldn't do that to them."

"Sybil," Sherlock said. He tilted his head in curiosity.

"My granddaughter," Violet said from around the corner, still sounding as though she'd rather not recognize the marriage.

"So I was right," he mused.

Carlisle fired, and Violet ducked. There was a loud cracking noise as the Dowager swiped her cane fiercely through the air and it collided with Carlisle's head, sending him crumpling to the ground. "Come! Come, both of you," she ordered. "We'll be late for the wedding. I'm an old woman now, I have to have my victories, and this wedding is one of them. We'll discuss this later, Branson."

* * *

John and Sherlock sat awkwardly in the third pew amidst a sweeping crowd, all of whom seemed overly eager to watch the ceremony (and the strange men in pyjamas). Simple hymns were sung, and John sang but Sherlock remained stiffly silent, watching the couple as they stood, facing the altar. He strained to hear their voices—her voice shook slightly on high C, and his warbled on middle F.

The woman was holding herself with a fragile dignity, flowers clasped gently in her hands. The man seemed to be fairly beaming (not that Sherlock could see his face—that would have been too easy). They obviously had been waiting for the moment for a long time—how long? probably through the war, the man had a small distinctive scar on his right hand, most likely a gunpowder burn—and it was evident that they had abided by the rules of the times regarding intimacy, because they were still hesitant around each other, and for God's sake, _anyone_ who took one look at their faces would be able to tell.

Sherlock coughed into his sleeve, which earned him a glare from the Dowager Countess. He hastily returned his gaze to the couple.

* * *

"I, Matthew Reginald, take thee, Mary Josephine, to be my wedded wife…" He was grateful for the pause in which the vicar prompted him, because he was finding it rather difficult to breathe. "…to have and to hold from this day forward…"

"For better or for worse," the vicar said calmly.

"…for better or for worse…"

"_I've made you angry."_

"_My life makes me angry," she said. Then, with hardly any more feeling—"Not you."_

"…for richer or poorer…"

"_Shall I tell you what I think has altered you? My prospects. Because nothing else has changed." His eyes flared uncontrollably blue. So she was nothing more than a shallow earl's daughter after all. _

"_No!" And then she was Mary again for a moment, the Mary he thought he knew. But he had to be truthful. They both did._

"_Yes! If your mother's child is a boy, then _he's_ the heir and I go back to living on my wits, and you'd rather not follow me."_

"_Oh, Matthew! You always make everything so black and white!"_

"…in sickness and in health…"

_He stared blankly up at the hospital ceiling, feeling more worthless than he had in his life. Well, that wasn't quite true—after the garden party he'd realized that she considered him only to be a source of money, and she didn't care for him in the slightest. But now that his legs had gone, and so had…all that…he swallowed hard. And now he had memories of dirt and dust, blood and death. No, his earlier problems seemed positively shallow now. _

_The quiet click of heels on the tiled floor announced someone's presence. He glanced up hopefully. "Mary?"_

_Isobel frowned. "No."_

"_Mother." He was pleased. He _was. _"Mother, I—"_

"_Are you all right?" she said, in her usual brisk tone. "The infection can still set in, you know..." _

"…to love and to cherish…"

"_If I told you the reason, you would despise me and that I really couldn't bear!"_

…"_You were wrong…about one thing."_

"_Only one?" she said with what little sarcasm she could summon at that moment. "And what is that, pray?"_

"_I never would…I never _could_ despise you," he admitted. He _had_ tried, at times, and failed spectacularly. _

"…till death do us part…With this ring, I plight thee my troth." He fumbled with the wedding band and nearly dropped it, heat rising to his face as he recovered and slipped it onto her finger.

The vicar cleared his throat. "And now the bride," he said in a dull voice. "I, Mary Josephine."

"I, Mary Josephine...Take thee—Matthew Reginald—to be my wedded husband. To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse…"

"_Must have been a horrible shock," he said genuinely, squinting in the afternoon sun. _

"_Yes," she answered, wondering just how much he meant it. Because he really had no idea. _

"_And he seemed…such a nice fellow."_

"_He was—a very nice fellow." She hadn't known that Matthew had thought that. He probably didn't, not really. _

"_So, if there's anything I can do…please ask."_

"…for richer or poorer…"

"_But I can't be sure! Of you—or of anything, it seems."_

"_But you can't leave Downton."_

"_I can't stay," he said, his face sorrowful. Bitterly, she realized—it was the end, her fault. And the tears started to rise up in her eyes._

"…in sickness and in health…"

"_And if they should just—want to be with you? On any terms?"_

"_No one _sane_ would want to be with me as I am now," he announced miserably. "Including me….oh, God, I think I'm going to be sick."_

_She brought the basin under his mouth, thankful that he couldn't see her wince as the vomit splattered into the bowl. "It's all right. It's perfectly all right."_

"…to love and to cherish…till death do us part. With this ring, I plight thee my troth."

If they'd looked away from each other's eyes (which naturally they didn't), they would have seen the Earl of Grantham dabbing his face with a handkerchief. Even John Watson had solemn joy written on his face. (Sherlock rolled his eyes, the couple obviously had issues.)

Violet Crawley seemed to be coming down with a cold.


End file.
